


Cure

by Gipsy_Danger



Category: Left 4 Dead 2
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Special Infected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gipsy_Danger/pseuds/Gipsy_Danger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is not good to see people who have been pretending strength all their lives lose it even for a minute."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cure

There are a lot of things I hate.

I hate getting blood and guts on the suit that used to be worth more than the stock car we plowed through a mall full of zombies in; I hate the grits that we find in every damn safe-house, and I hate the fact that Rochelle always forces me to eat them. I hate the Chargers that always seem to know when I’m being a dick and barrel into me like it’s divine justice or some shit. I hate that I can’t remember my last shower, that I have blisters from my shoes and my gun, and that I would kill for a decent night’s sleep.

But more than anything, I hate feeling useless.

I don’t even know why it started bothering me all of a sudden. I guess I hadn’t had the opportunity until Project Zombie Shitstorm took off. All I know is that one day I’m ready to abandon these three first chance I get, and the next I’m fighting off an anxiety attack when Ellis darts ahead to scout.

Last week was the worst. We were all shaken and bruised from a particularly rough encounter with a Tank, dragging ourselves along with a bottle of painkillers and half a dozen bullets between the four of us. I had managed to drop my Magnum while I was dodging a car hood and had snatched up a baseball bat as a last resort.

I was limping along behind the rest of Team Dixieland, convinced my ankle was sprained, when Coach was snatched out of our line by a Smoker tongue. The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than five, ten minutes, but it was long enough to make me realize how absolutely worthless I am without a gun. Coach was already several feet in front of me, wrapped too tightly in dripping coils to be freed by anything but a well-placed gunshot. I still don’t know why I bothered running after him. Rochelle had already emptied her shotgun into the thing, Ellis pulling him to his feet with a grin loopy enough to be a result of the meds.

I had made a mental note to forget it all as soon as we we got into the safe-room. We sat in sullen, wounded silence until Overalls pulled something out of his pocket and pressed it into Coach’s hand.

"M & Ms are the best," Ellis explained, as if revealing some sort of ancient wisdom. "I remember this one time, I busted my leg up real bad jumpin’ out a window, ‘cause I thought the house was on fire an’…"

"Sweetie…"

"Okay," he placated, but continued. "Anyway, Keith gave me this huge bag of M’s and it made me feel so much better…”

"Wow, great story kid…" I hadn’t meant to be so sarcastic about it, since it was actually a fairly nice gesture to give away the last of his candy, but my foot was killing me, my pride was still sore and I was probably jealous of the giant smile spreading across Coach’s face.

Ellis didn’t even react, just kept shining his stupid, hundred-watt grin as Coach offered around the dusty chocolate.

I think I fell asleep shaking my head at them.

I’ve spent the last week feeling bitter and a bit left out, and Ro’ calls me a crabby bastard for it, but I honestly couldn’t care less. I was having a bad day then, and it’s not getting any better.

Although… I think Ellis is having an even worse time than I am.

I mean, I actually feel bad for the kid. He attracts super-douche zombies more than any of us put together. Makes me think the undead prefer virgin brains or something. I feel like an asshole for it, but I laugh every time a Jockey jumps on his back.

Except today.

We’re sneaking along a rooftop, trying to keep quiet, when one of those creepy bastards literally jumps over me to latch onto Ellis. The look on his face, something like “Oh shit,” combined with “not again” is enough to make me chuckle, readying my shotgun a little slower than what I probably could have.

His face was priceless, sue me.

Until the Jockey drives him right over the edge of the roof.

I’m yelling, running forward, slipping on molding shingles, nearly sliding off the roof myself, but I grab his wrist, not thinking about what I’ll do if the Jockey’s still clinging to him. This kid’ll be the death of me, I decide, digging in my heels to haul him to safety.

There are claw marks and bruises across Ellis’ shoulders, and his fingers are torn and bleeding from where the roof has cut them to shreds, but he grins up at me, pretending he didn’t almost fall ten stories.

"You alright?"

Ellis nods, practically bouncing on his toes. “Yup!” he exclaims, but I can see him clenching his teeth, holding his fire-axe with white knuckles. Before I can call him out on it, Ellis bounds forward again, endless energy and stupidity.

Whatever. It’s not my problem.

I’m jogging to keep up with the rest of them a few hours later when I hear the snort of a Charger.

It’s only eleven, I haven’t had time to be a dick yet!

There’s a fire escape dangling above me, so I jump up to dodge it, scrambling onto the steps. The Charger passes under my perch harmlessly, and I’m just about to laugh at my good luck when it slams into Ellis instead.

An incoherent scream echoes down the alleyway as he tumbles along the debris, finally coming to a stop at a crumbling brick wall.

I’m not aware of my feet hitting the ground, unslinging my shotgun, or firing off a round into the monster’s face. All I know is that I see a fist bigger than a car tire close around Ellis’ shoulders, pounding him into a dumpster, and then all I see is red. There’s a weird sort of clarity underneath the rage, a moment when I know I’m going to tear this Charger apart, despite what little rationality I have left howling that this isn’t something I do. Ellis has dropped his fire axe and I scoop it up, swinging it into the Charger’s arm with enough force to send me staggering into the wall. Ellis falls backwards, squirming away from the arm and I recover enough to cleave its skull in two. Kicking the body away, I hobble over to where Ellis is curled.

We’ve all gotten some pretty nasty scrapes in our time together, but Ellis’ back makes the grits flip in my stomach.

"Jesus…" I hadn’t realized how much glass was along the pavement until it’s sticking out of the kid’s skin. His dingy yellow shirt is shredded by the road and glass, and his eyes haven’t opened since he fell out of the Charger’s grip.

"Ellis…?" I try, reaching out to pick a splinter of glass from his neck. He flinches away from me, and only then do I notice how heavily he’s breathing. He’s clutching at his stomach, and I can’t help but worry that he’ll be sick.

"Ribs…" he croaks, eyes opening groggily.

"Come on," I interrupt, grabbing his arm a little too roughly and pulling him to his feet. Ellis makes this strange sound, something I remember from when I was a kid and my dog stepped on a thorn. It’s high-pitched, a drawn-out keening whimper, and I can feel his grimy fingers knotting in my hair in protest.

"Shit!" I yelp, almost dropping him. Instead, I loop his arm across my shoulders, wrapping the other around his waist.

"Coach should have the first-aid kit," I mumble, more for my benefit than his.

Why did I use my last one wrapping my ankle? Stupid, useless…

Coach and Rochelle are already running toward us, concern obvious on their faces.

"Either of you have a first-aid kit?" I pant, dropping Ellis into Coach’s arms.

"Only these," Rochelle apologizes, handing Ellis a bottle of painkillers that he downs gratefully, leaping to his feet at their first kick of caffeine.

"Thanks!" he trills, springing ahead to the highway.

"If you get grabbed by another super-zombie, I’m not helping you!" I call after him, trying to keep up.

We’re passing under an overpass when I hear her. A sniffling, moaning Witch.

"Ellis, turn off your goddamn flashlight right now or I’ll…"

"I got it, I got it, jeez…"

Pocketing my own light, I creep along behind, careful not to bump the flickering cars. Alerting the Horde is something we’d all rather avoid when there isn’t so much as a band-aid between us.

I’m so preoccupied with thoughts of avoiding the cars and the Witch that I don’t bother to check around the corner. I hear the grumble a split-second too late, not ducking fast enough to avoid a faceful of stinging Boomer guts.

The only thing I have time to yell is a garbled “Son of a bitch!” before there’s a hundred zombie-bodies grabbing for me. I can’t tell if my axe is making contact with any of them, or even how many there are. My only concern is finding room to breathe, stumbling backwards to freedom.

My feet tangle in something soft, and as I topple over backwards I can’t keep a resigned smirk from twitching across my face. I’m still somewhat blinded, rubbing my eyes is only making things worse, and I can’t tell what’s ready to pounce on me.

Until her claws rake down my chest. I fling up my hands, useless, useless, and she’s tearing open my arms. I’m screaming in pain, pride forgotten as my vision begins to flicker into grey.

Dimly, I can feel the claws turning away from me, stabbing into my sides as every muscle spasms in shrieking protest. A gunshot sounds in my ear, loud enough to make me gasp as a filthy hand closes around my wrist.

"Not leaving you man," Ellis grunts, pushing the dead, flopping Witch away and moving to scoop me up in a fireman’s carry.

"M’ legs are fine," I snap, pushing him away angrily, trying to gain enough breath to stand. Ellis shrugs off my hand, beaming as he pulls me up by the lapels.

"Guess you aren’t hurt too bad, hunh?" he asks, holding out an arm to steady me. We both know it’s a lie, but he’s pretending I’m not bleeding out and I’m pretending his hand isn’t still around my wrist, so a few more illusions won’t hurt. He’s bleeding too, I notice, a lucky swipe low on his stomach.

A hand slaps me roughly across the face and I blink, barely feeling the sting.

"…with me here! Gettin’ close now…" The words are slurred, and I can’t tell if it’s my hearing or a side-effect of Ellis’ growing black eye. Funny, I hadn’t noticed it before… Where are we exactly…? None of this looks familiar…

Confused, I look at the ground, surprised when I don’t see my own feet. For some reason, this doesn’t worry me as much as the rational part of me insists it should. I can see Ellis’ steel-toed boots, smoking and ragged and flecked with green. Spitter? When…? Why don’t I remember it…?

"Nnngh?" I ask. Eloquent.

Ellis laughs and shifts my weight sideways, tripping over my feet. There they are. “Witch really did a number on ya,” he supplied, a bit unhelpfully. “Then ya went a little…” Can’t seem to find the right word… Whistles instead, the universal batshit-crazy noise.

"Guh?"

"Yeah man. You were, what is it…? Catatonic. Figured it was ‘cause you were torn up so bad, but you were mumblin’ about, I dunno, crazy shit. Feet and being useless and karma… It was weird.”

Let him rant about the time Keith dragged a log all the way around town or something. Kid tells that story in his sleep and it still doesn’t make sense.

"Others…?" First coherent word in God-knows how long. Tongue is dry, teeth taste like blood, bad combination.

"Got separated bro," and I cringe, beat to hell as I am. "Think they’re up ahead. Keep hearing gunshots, so that’s good, ya know…"

No point in answering. “Nuh…”

Ellis looks worried, and I see for the first time how pale he is under the tan. Keep forgetting he’s hurt too.

"…is…" I try coughing, fingers clenching around his shoulder for support. I can feel him flinch, forgetting the Jockey-claws from… A few hours ago…?

"Ellis," I repeat, and he glances over like a rabbit. "You okay?" He blinks, surprised, and, I realize with a bit of a shock, scared as hell. We’re alone, I’m useless, he’s hurt, and of course he’s not alright.

Should get my footing, at least. My feet scrabble against the dust and finally rest flat. The first step forward sends me sprawling, dragging Ellis down with me. Every instinct screams to get up, to run, to catch up, but Ellis is crushing my foot and I can’t walk or  
move or breathe…

I can’t breathe.

Panic grips me, and I can hear Ellis screaming, grabbing at my suit. My hands keep hitting his face, clutching his hair, trying to keep some sort of anchor, anything just to breathe.

Distantly, I feel someone punch me in the heart and I bolt upright, gasping in pain and surprise. Had Ellis…?

I’m looking up into Coach’s huge brown eyes instead, feeling a heavy roughness wrapped around me. A first-aid kit? Where had they found one here…?

"On your feet," he urges, pulling me up. I feel like shit, and my back hurts for some reason, like I was bent in half the wrong way. I can see a defibrillator crumpled on the ground, can’t stop staring at it…

Coach is pulling me along, I’m dragging. Exhausted.

My mouth feels like I’ve been chewing cotton and tinfoil, but Coach seems to know what I’m trying to ask.

"Rochelle is fine. We’re holed up in a convenience store up ahead…"

“‘afe…?”

"Not a safe-house. Close enough."

"Ellis?" I feel like a dick for asking about him this late.

"Doin’ okay," he says from somewhere behind us, and I crane my neck to try and check on him.

"Lyin’ bastard," I grumble, staggering forward without Coach’s help. Soreness aside, I actually feel alright. Feel a lot better than the kid looks, anyway. Couldn’t see him earlier, but now… Jesus Christ, how is he still on his feet? Smiling, even. Sure, it’s more of a grimace, but…

I owe him one, I decide, reaching to swing his arm over my shoulders. I can tell he’s fading, his smile keeps blinking out, but he’s trying.

"Cut that out," Coach reprimands, sweeping Ellis away from me. "Open up your stomach again and I’ll kill ya. Got it?”

There’s no ignoring the fact that Coach just told me I was too weak to be of any help, so I make a noise between a grunt and a sigh and limp along behind them, feeling worthless.

Rochelle is standing just ahead of us, keeping watch on top of a gas pump. When she sees us she sighs visibly, locking the fortified door behind us with a click.

I want to make myself scarce, to curl up in a corner to lick my wounds, physical and otherwise, but I hover instead, awkward and lost.

Rochelle is busy as always, and I’d make a quip about her being in the kitchen, but she’s uncovered a box of cereal, and I’m not about to get it thrown at my head.

Coach is rummaging around, getting increasingly frustrated as he turns the store upside-down in search of a first-aid kit.

Even Ellis has found something. Granted, that something is to lie on the floor falling in and out of a fitful sleep, but it’s more than I’m doing.

An apology from Coach pulls me out of my thoughts, glancing over to where he’s crouched next to Ellis. I can tell he’s not carrying bandages and painkillers by the way Ellis is staring at his hands. There’s really nothing I can do, but I half-run forward regardless. Coach looks back at me, clearly troubled as he uncaps the adrenaline shot and presses the needle into the kid’s skin. He twitches and yelps like it was white-hot, but he seems far more alert. Almost back to his fearless self.

I’m wondering why Coach bothered with it. Seems like a waste to me…

Then I notice the coil of fishing line and needle in Coach’s other hand.

Shit.

I can tell Ellis is thinking the same thing, but he’s a lot braver than I would be.

I really hate needles.

Even seeing the near-transparent wire dangling off it is enough to make me forget about Ro’s cereal and focus on getting the hell out.

I’m not quick enough, and before I can bolt, the needle slides under the still-bloody skin, squeaking as it drags the makeshift thread behind it. My breakfast twists and flips into my throat at the sight of a three-inch needle holding Ellis’ clawed stomach shut, but I can’t look away. He’s squirming, gnawing his lip to shreds, but he still has it more together than I do. His eyes, darting around the room until now, suddenly lock on mine, too bright and too panicked.

It’s enough to shatter my morbid fascination, and I spin on my heel, fleeing into the dusty shelves.

I’m not sure how long I’m leaning against the far wall, trying to settle my stomach and judge how long it will take Coach to finish his job, but my only way of counting is how many times I’ve mentally run through Stairway to Heaven. Three. I tap the ending riff of Freebird for good measure, turning back to the door when something catches my eye.

I bend double, reaching under a half-broken shelf to pull out a small brown bag.

Seriously…?

Needles forgotten, I all but run to where Ellis is struggling to sit up. The rumpled package drops into his lap, and he scoops it up with a whoop.

"M & Ms man? Really? You’re the best!”

Part of me wants to point out that they’re probably stale, but I’m a bit dazzled by the impossibly huge smile he’s shining at me.

"Yeah, whatever, knock yourself out," I mumble.

For once, Ellis doesn’t say anything, flinging his arms around my shoulders.

My stomach starts flipping again.


End file.
